Wearing Of The Green
by sleepy hippo
Summary: Ireland flees England's house and talks to Scotland about her plans for revolution and their likely outcome. Set after the American war for independence and just before the United Irish rebellion. Drabble-ish. For St. Patrick's Day.


Just a short piece for St. Patricks day! Set before the United Irish rebellion (1798-ish), after the American war of independence. Touches of humour mixed in with contemplation about revolution and the significance of freedom.

Kathleen/Patricia - Ireland

Donald - Scotland

Fionn - Northern Ireland

**Disclaimer - APH is not mine.**

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**Wearing of the Green**

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"He can't stop me joining them!" Her breathing was laboured, her clothes stained and ragged, her shoes lost, feet bleeding. She knew she was a mess.

"Get in." Donald growled, pulling her through the door.

"My feet are-"

"I don't bloody care, we consider blood stains a timeless accessory."

She tilted her head, smile pained but genuine, "Yes, stupid of me to forget really."

"Just…too long." He muttered, pulling her close in a rough, affectionate embrace.

"You look a right mess." He said, holding her at arms length and pulling a face.

"And you look as stupid as ever but you don't see me commenting on it."

"Well you have now, guests should refrain from insulting their hosts."

"Yeah? Since when have either of us done what we should?" She frowned at him, "You look ill, Donald." His smile dropped away, and he nodded, unable to speak.

"Come on." He led her into through the house and she noticed his limp and the abandoned air of his once lively home.

"Forty-five?*" He glanced back at her, frowning. He turned away again, forcing a laugh, brushing it off.

"So, what are you up to, kid? Has the Sassenach thrown you out?"**

"Oh how I wish he had. Kid? I'm older than you, idiot." She slapped him upside the head with a little more force than necessary,

laughing at his exaggerated fall.

"Ah, Kathleen, in mental age I'll always be older and wiser." He still lay sprawled on the floor, his tone whimsical. It made for an odd contrast.

"Hey that's not my name any more, God you can't even get that one small detail right! Very wise indeed." He straightened from his position on the floor, frowning momentarily returning before being banished with a smirk.

"Oh sorry _Patricia_, I forgot you changed your name over that lad you were obsessed with." She could feel her cheeks burning, he'd never let that go, would he?***

"Shut up, it wasn't like that you oaf!" His eyes seemed to sparkle, she suspected this was a rarity since the war, but she decided, this was not the time for that kind of a conversation. She didn't have any answers worth giving for a start. "I've run away." The laughter died in his eyes, brows creasing in concern.

"Good, I suppose but he'll not just let you, he will retaliate. Been a damn brat these last few centuries."

"And don't I know it." She remarked, before adding, "When was he not a brat, Donald? You raised him for a while, right? Practically inevitable." She grinned in triumph at the dramatic look of hurt adorning his face.

"Well true enough," He conceded, "But why now, what made you up and run?" She hesitated, and a look of understanding seemed to pass between them.

"Oh Patricia." He sighed, "We're such fools, I fear it'll wound you more than him."

"I _know_ it will." She closed her eyes, resigned, "That's beside the point though, isn't it." He nodded, eyes slightly unfocused as if he was witnessing something in the distance. _Through the distance of years and unspeakable pain._

"It's the gesture."

"The gesture." She repeated, remembering her own not so distant failures.

"For Glory." He snorted, the words sounded bitter and raw.

"Glory, yes, it's so hard to find though among the fallen."

"It can only be found among the fallen."

"That is cynical." She admonished.

"True." He insisted.

"True but cynical." He smiled sadly, dragging a hand over his jaw, calloused hands scraping against recent stubble. "You survived it."

"I'm not glorious though, I was damn near broken. This is me looking good."

"You never look good."

"I never try."

"You can tell." He moved his head from side to side in agreement. "Can I take some some weapons?" _I need to be home. I need them _for_ home._

"I've not got much left to give. There are some things, in the back. They only ever brought their bearers glory, I'd rather you wielded something more auspicious."

"They're auspicious enough. They'll bring me Glory." He flinched.

"Don't say that." _Broken, you came close indeed but you've just bent…for a time. Like me. My time might not be over but we don't allow ourselves to stay bent for long…we're stronger, our people demand it of us and we…we willingly stand with them and fight._

"Heh, going so soft Donald, Glory might be for the fallen but it resides with the living and we give it meaning. To do anything else would be to dishonour those who fought. Did your fallen people fail, dear?" He seemed surprised at her words and the silence stretched, heavy with ponderous thought. Slowly, the corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

"No they did not, we will always rise again. They trust in us, we'll not willing fade."

"No step will go uncontested. For freedom."

"For freedom," He echoed, adding, "What is more worthy of glory."

"Nothing, dear, nothing." She placed a hand on his head, "You don't live with him, you refuse his summons, now watch me do the same." She felt her hand move as he nodded.

"Be careful."

"Don't speak so naively, it will be rebellion, war, I don't plan on holding back. They do this for me and I in turn do it for them. Plus if Francis can have a rebellion why the hell can't we!"

"I hear it's the latest trend in Paris right enough." He observed.

"One day I'll be a republic."

"One day, maybe, probably not today. You'll fight anyway."

"I'll fight as if there were a thousand Englishmen at my back."

"There will be." He laughed, and in turn set her off.

"Just-as – well –then." She wheezed between bursts of laughter. They both fell to gasping, sides aching from their unexpected outburst. "If Arthur could see us now." She muttered as her breathing evened out again.

"He'd piss himself."

"Not from laughing though." They both doubled over again, combined roars shaking the room.

"What do your brave revolutionaries call themselves?" He asked, after the laughter had once again subsided, sounding weary but serene.

"The United Irishmen."* She proudly declared, liking the sound of it and the implications it carried.

"United Irishmen…it has a certain rightness."

"Yes Catholic and Protestants, together asking for equality, freedom from the ascendancy's parliamentary rule, freedom from England, freedom for the language…the songs, the culture." She slumped down onto the floor beside Donald resting her head on his shoulder. "What you've lost." She spoke gently.

"Our culture…they don't see it as culture, never mind as equal. I can already feel it…dying, people leaving."

"I know, we have hard times ahead my dear but we'll make it through. Slightly diminished maybe but we'll remember and if we do, some of our people will."

"Eirinn go brach."** He chuckled, saluting. Patricia preformed a mock bow.

"Alba gu brath."*** She returned, he tilted his head in acceptance and kissed her hand. They both exchanged grins.

"I take it you didn't discuss this with Arthur before your flight."

"Of course not, you know him, the word republic is unspeakably dirty to him, if I so much as ventured that he'd slit my throat. "

"America?"

"Who else. He treated America quite well at times but everybody values their freedom, and well, Alfred was no different."

"I always liked that lad. You are heartened by it?"

"I see in it the future. Maybe for us it's still far in the distance but it'll come in time."

"All things do."

"Exactly. Our day will come. Also…sleep, sleep comes with time." She unsuccessfully attempted to stifle her yawn, Donald, eyes heavy lidded was drifting beside her.

"Yeah get to bed - clean up, rummage around, my house is your house…you know the drill." He stood up, rolling his shoulders and producing a series of cracks as vertebrae settled. He made his way to the door.

"Hey! Where are you going?" She asked, watching him move for the door, his strides hampered by a faint limp.

"To get my brother."

"Arthur?" She asked, baffled and alarmed.

"Fionn, I'm sure he'll be up for a fight or two." He threw her a parting smirk, and closed the door behind him.

"He always is…"

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This is not intended as England bashing or the like but there are a lot of fics that present Ireland and Scotland as quite sadistic and I felt that some redress was needed. In this England is not shown directly but he is not supposed to be sadistic or teasing, more ruthless. And slightly heartbroken.

* 1745 – The Jacobite rebellion under Bonnie Prince Charlie, culminating in the battle of Culloden where the Prince's forces were defeated and highland culture –instruments, song, dress and language – was outlawed. Had a very large effect on the Highland clans and in fact put an end to the clan system.

** Sassenach – Scottish term for an Englishman (is sometimes used for lowlanders as well.)

***St. Patrick, patron saint of Ireland.

* The United Irishmen - a revolutionary movement in Ireland that promoted Irish culture and the separation of religion from politics as the protestant ruling ascendancy had unfair laws against other religions sects including the Catholic majority of the people. Most of the prominent leaders of the United Irishmen (e.g. Wolf Tone, Russell, Emmet, McCracken etc.) were in fact protestant. A lot of the leaders were right characters although maybe not the most successful revolutionaries. I still think they're totally awesome though.

** Eirinn go brach – Irish Gaeilge for Ireland forever (roughly)

*** Alba gu brath – Scottish Gaelic for Scotland Forever (roughly, more literally, Scotland until judgment)


End file.
